


the line where the sky meets the sea

by youareiron_andyouarestrong



Category: Moana (2016)
Genre: Demigods, F/M, Gen, Immortality, Maui is bad at feelings, Moana is not, Not A Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: Time is fluid, when you're an immortal demigod. Mortals are not. (Maui comes to terms with Moana's mortality. And handles it about as well could be expected.)





	

Time is fluid for a demigod. You go off for a while, to have adventures, help the mortals with their problems, defeat a monster or two and it’s fine! It’s _all good._ And if you happen to leave behind a certain curly-haired, feisty, determined princess--oh, sorry, _daughter of the village chief_ \--well, things will _probably_ be fine. She’s a bright kid, the first wayfarer in generations. Leading her people and all that. She’ll be alright.

And so off you go. You fight monsters. You sass gods. You help mortals. You do you, basically.

And when you come back to that certain curly-haired, feisty chief’s daughter--you’re _brimming_ with things to tell her, that creature you defeated, the new tattoos you’ve earned, the myths you’ve begun. And she’ll have her own stories to tell, of course she will and you’ll listen. To all of them! You won’t even interrupt.

And when you come back, you’re in for unpleasant surprise.

Things have--changed.

She’s not a kid anymore. Her father has stepped down, she’s stepped up. She is the leader of Motunui. She’s--what, eighteen? Twenty? You’ve never been good with mortal ages--a woman and a _beautiful_ woman at that, tall, strong, graceful. Already she has her own tattoos on her back, arms, shoulders, legs that signify her chief hood. But the blue shell locket still hangs around her neck, nestles comfortably in the hollow of her collarbones (not that you notice, you’re just using your, you know, demigod powers of observation). She is delighted, no, _overjoyed_ to see you, and you’re shocked by how happy _you_ are to see her. She presses her forehead to yours, laughs and breathes into your face and you think, _...oh no. Oh NO._

You are in trouble.

Her people are glad to see you, of course they are, it’s not everyday a demigod of myth and legend shows up in their village! And she commands them to begin preparations for a feast in your honor and you think, _well_ this _is more like it._

The feasting goes on, late into the night. There is music, laughter, songs, dancing, stories. You tell your myths, she tells their stories. You spin your hook and perform a war dance that scared monsters and her people laugh and cheer. She gets up and dances with the other young women from the village and your head is thick with drink and starlight and the way the firelight catches in her hair, gilds her face. The stars are burning and the moon is dipping low into the water when her people finally drift off to sleep. You go down to the Ocean and it greets you, more or less affectionately, winding around your ankles, misting your hair. You’re not sure--exactly--when she showed up, but there she is, gleaming silver and you think, _this is how it ends._

You’re not sure where that thought comes from. You don’t think you want to know.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she tells you, smiling fondly, the Ocean curling lovingly around her feet, you are not jealous of _water_. “I missed you.”

You do not read into that. “Ha! Of _course_ you missed me, princess,” you retort, tossing your head, gesturing to yourself boldly-- _the hair, the bod._ “Your life would be _boring_ without me, admit it.”

“Not a princess,” she reminds you, but with less exasperated irritability than she has in days past. “But yes, you’re right--I just _languish_ on my island the days you’re not here. The moments seem like years when you’re gone.”

You squint at her; there is _far_ too much impertinence in her eyes for you to _quite_ believe her. “What else would you do?” you retort and she _laughs,_ by the gods, you want to hear that sound everyday for the rest your immortal life.

“Come on,” she says, taking your hand, tugging you back. “We’ve been up half the night. You need to sleep.”

You do not need to sleep, you haven’t _slept_ for the past thousands of years--you follow her back to the village anyways. You would follow her anywhere.

//

The next morning, you are hungover and _she_ is up with the roosters, bright and chipper and _so godsdamn infuriating,_ you take back all the weird dreams you had last night of water and brown hair swirling around you like the tide. “Good morning, Maui!” she carols at you, eyes dancing wickedly. “Time to get up!”

You roll over, squint at her through your own curtain of hair. “I can _definitely_ fling you into the water from here,” you assure her, she doesn’t look in the least intimidated.

“The Ocean would just put me back,” she replies blithely and dances nimbly out of reach from your half-hearted grab at her. “Come on, you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten something.”

And you do--but you’re not telling _her_ that.

She takes you around her island, her village, introduces him to everyone, she knows all their names, their names of their spouses, their children, their extended family, their _livestock..._ you don’t know how she remembers it all. And they love her, you can tell, by the way they follow her with their eyes when she talks, the way they smile when they see her coming. You know the feeling.

Time is fluid. You spend--days? Weeks? _Months?--_ on her island. The two of you go have adventures, she takes her canoe and shows him the other islands she’s helped set up and find, the villagers there greet her just as enthusiastically. She is the epitome of a chief, calm, cool, gracious, _firm._ She is _respected._

You tell yourself every morning that this will be the last day. It’s a big ocean, after all--you have monsters to kill, stories to begin, legends to make--but every day you stay _one more day._ And the longer you stay, the more you notice-- _things._

She is beautiful. Men _watch_ her, the way she walks, firm, purposeful, the way the material around her hips sway when she dances, the way she uses her hands when she talks. The way her hair catches the light of the sun, of the fire, of the stars. She doesn’t seem to notice--of course not, why would she, what could these mortal _men_ ever have to offer her, chief of Motunui, first of the wayfinders--that doesn’t stop you from glaring at every single last one of them if their gazes linger for too long.

Still, the talk of betrothals come as a surprise.

“You are a _child,_ ” you say in disbelief when her mother brings it up over the evening meal. “How can you possibly be getting married?”

The _look_ she gives you is remarkably similar to the one a certain lava monster once leveled at you--and the glances her parents give each other aren’t missed either. “ _What?”_ you demand.

She sets her bowl down, shakes her head. “This _is_ part of my duties as chief, you know. And I’ve put it off for long enough; there’s lot of candidates I could choose from.”

 _Candidates? Choose from?_ Over your immortal undying body!

“I could help,” you offer and now they’re _all_ staring at you. “You know, pick someone worthy of you.”

“The choice would be hers alone, still,” her father says politely, but firmly, you are suddenly seized by the uncomfortable conviction you don’t fool him at all. Her mother doesn’t look convinced either, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“ _You’re_ not going to help,” she says firmly, not even looking at him. “You’d scare them all off. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your glaring!”

You splutter indignantly, stung and disbelieving that she _caught_ you--and she goes on eating like nothing is out of the ordinary, her parents are exchanging glances and you fume to yourself.

//

They’re all wrong for her. Every single last one of them.

And you tell her so. Despite her refusal to _let you help,_ you hang around anyways, ruthlessly interrogating each prospective suitor. She is trying to keep a rein on her temper, but you can see sparks dancing in her eyes every time she glares at your interruptions, brows drawn together, mouth a thin line.

This suitor is too old. This one is too young. Another doesn’t have a big enough canoe, another isn’t wealthy enough, another’s tribe is too small, another’s tribe is too big--

They all bring gifts of course, offers. Jewelry, fruit, blankets, weaponry. Some of them are suitable, some are not. Some are painfully _perfect_ for her, beautiful and functional and suiting her down to the ground, and these are the ones you hate the most.

Finally, she thanks those who have come, sets aside their offerings, grabs your ear and _hauls_ you out of her dwelling and into the forest outside, you protesting loudly the whole way. She ignores you, of course she does, when has she _ever_ listened to a word you say?

“ _Look,”_ she says, patience finally at an end when you are far enough away from the village, “this has to got to stop.”

You rub your ear resentfully, glower. “I’m trying to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life and _this_ is the thanks I get?”

She looks at you in utter disbelief. “You know that this is my _job,_ right? I’m the chief of the village, marriage and children is a part of that and why are you acting _so weird?_ ”

“I’m not being weird, _YOU’RE_ being weird!” you shout back at her and she storms off one direction and you go in another.

You stomp off down to the beach, the Ocean lapping at your feet in almost conciliatory manner--not that you are fooled, the Ocean will always love her better. That’s to be expected. She slump down on the sand and stare at the line where the sky meets the sea. It doesn’t call you, merely makes you face what you’ve been avoiding.

You were not prepared for this. You came back expecting to find the child, the stubborn, reckless girl who traveled the ocean to find you, who faced down a monster, who was chosen by the Ocean, the descendant of voyagers and instead, you found the woman, the chief, the leader, and you--you are not ready for this.

She is mortal. You know this. She must marry. You know this. She will have children, she will grow old, she will--

She will _die._

You did not think of this.

The idea of it hollows you, carves you out, the notion of a sea without her, a world that doesn’t have her in it. A world without her laughter, her smiles, her eyes, her anger and her temper, her unflinching belief in the Ocean, the sky, herself. Could you bear it? You wonder, could you live without her and that’s when everything starts to go sideways, because you realize, _no_ you could not and _yes,_ you must. The gods gave you immortality. You will go on, unending as the tide and she--she will cease. Like sea foam. Like sparks.

You lurch to your feet, already moving. Grab your fish hook, take hawk form--go. Leave. Get away. Find another tiny island to hide out in for a few more thousand years. Maybe then you’ll feel up to the task of facing the world without her.

Before you can do any of that, you hear her calling you: “Maui!”

You freeze in place, turn around slowly. The sun is setting and she looks like Te Fiti, a wreath of flowers around her head, hair down, walking through the surf to meet him. You don’t move. You’re not sure you can.

“Where are you going?” she asks, coming close, frowning at you. “I was looking for you--I wanted to tell you--Maui, what’s wrong?”

What’s _wrong? What’s wrong?_ What’s _wrong_ is that she’s mortal and you’re not, what’s wrong is that the world will go on without her and so will you--

“ _Maui,”_ she says again, she says your name, as soft and as gentle as you’ve never heard it. “Maui, what’s wrong?” she sounds like she cares. She sounds like she means it. And you know she does.

What you do next is unforgivable. What you do next is unthinkable. What you do next is that you kiss her. You are not gentle with it. You are reckless and hungry with it, furious almost. She gasps into your mouth and you _push,_ you _take,_ you are the demigod Maui and she is the wayfinder queen who stole your heart right out from under you and you _will not lose her_ \--

She punches you in the stomach. _Hard._ You double over, gasping and she scrambles back, almost tripping in the sand, the Ocean already rising between the two of you, protecting her. Against _you._ Her eyes are huge, her cheeks pale, the crown of flowers on her head knocked askew. “What?” she gasps out, stunned, “ _what--”_

You gape at her, bewildered and then the enormity of what you’ve just done crashes down on your head like a wave. She did not ask, she did not _want, what have you done--_

You flee. Snatch your fish hook out of the sand and take hawk form, speed towards the setting sun. You do not look back. You don’t dare.

//

Time is fluid. You circle the skies for days and days without rest. You spin around the crest of her island, where the tower of stones are, where she placed a seashell on top years ago.  

This is where she meets you, finally.

She looks the same, which makes you think it hasn’t been that long since you last saw her, but--

There are flowers in her hair.

“It’s my wedding day,” she says simply when you land in front of her. “Will you come down?”

You swallow hard, grip your fish hook. “Who’s the lucky man?”

She looks at you gravely, her wedding skirt fluttering in the breeze. “Does it matter?”

No it doesn’t, yes it does. “I don’t know,” you say honestly, and she nods, like she expected this. Takes a step closer and you don’t move, you don’t dare to, this might be the last time.

“I love him,” she says gently, “and he loves me. He’s a good man and will help me lead my people well.”

Won’t you come down?” she asks softly, “and meet him?”

You think you might choke. You nod like it might kill you and because you have to ask-- “You and I--”

Her eyes are the Ocean, unending. “I love you,” she tells you softly, utterly, “as I love the Ocean. You’re my best friend and I want you here, on my wedding day. I’m sorry I couldn’t--”

You can’t bear this. “Don’t you _ever_ be sorry,” you snarl and she flinches and your heart cracks, just a little.

“You are Moana of Motunui,” you say, this is your last chance to get it right. “You are the wayfinder queen and the leader of your people. You restored the heart of Te Fiti and battled monsters. And you--” it’s too much to bear, this pressure on your heart, but you force it out anyways, you will not be _beaten_ by this-- “You have the heart of the demigod Maui,” the tears in her eyes overflow. “And that will never, ever be taken from you.”

She laughs, she sobs, your heart breaks a little--but you will bear it. You must. “Do you,” she asks, through her laughter, through her sobs, “have any idea how unbearably _pompous_ it is to refer to yourself in the third person?”

“The demigod Maui ignores that remark,” you say loftily and she laughs, she weeps. She wipes away tears with the heels of her hands.

“Come down,” she urges you, reaching out, “come and walk me to my wedding.”

And you do. Because she asks.

//

Time is fluid. You come, you go. You see her age, see her children. The girls have her eyes, wide and bright and knowing, looking at the stars, the Ocean in them. The boys have her laugh and her snarl, her joy in the water.  

She changes--of course she does. Her hair goes silver, her back is hunched, she uses a cane--but she still laughs at you, teases you, walks with her head held high and the Ocean loves her still. She passed on the blue shell necklace to the next chief in line, her eldest great-grandson. He wears it even now.

You are there when she breathes her last.

Surrounded by her villagers, her family, children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the youngest of which bears her name, still cradled in her mother’s arms.. You rest your forehead against hers, take her breath into you one last time.

The Ocean outside sings like a mourner as she goes.

When she is buried, her people drift back to their village, aching and mourning, and you stay. You lay down on her grave and press your cheek to the dirt. “Wait for me,” you tell her, somewhere, “I’ll come for you. Wherever you end up.”

And you go. The line where the sky meets the sea is calling you with her voice and you must not stop until you reach her.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> technically speaking, I don't _ship_ Maui/Moana, but clearly I have a lot of feelings about immortal demigods and the fearless warrior queens who they pledge their hearts to.


End file.
